


A Portrait In Grayscale, The Perfect Betrayal

by HelloDoctorMorphine



Series: Pop Punk Kids AU [2]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Midtown, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Closeted Relationship, High School, M/M, Midtown!Gabe, Suburbia, also Pete Wentz is a giant fucking cheeseball when given the chance, wow look at that some continuity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2435396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloDoctorMorphine/pseuds/HelloDoctorMorphine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick is scared that his mother knows. Like. Knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Portrait In Grayscale, The Perfect Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. I wrote more of this. Who would have thought.  
> First off, if you are offended by the fluff at the end, I have no apologies. I was raised on Disney Renaissance, I quite enjoy my happy endings. I've also realized I'm utter shit at html formatting, which AO3 uses. I'm working on that. As with the last piece, underage warning for a consensual relationship between a legal adult and a minor. No beta, again. Title from Plane vs. Tank vs. Submarine by Tigers Jaw. Enjoy.

Patrick is scared that his mother knows. Like. Knows.

Except for the fact that she can’t, because as Pete leaves for the bathroom while the two of them are talking to Mrs. Stump in the kitchen, Mrs. Stump frowns and says, “he’s not a very good role model, is he?”

Patrick jumps up. “Role model?” He asks, knitting his eyebrows and blinking. 

“Patrick, I can see you look up to him, but I don’t think Peter’s the best choice of someone whose footsteps you should follow in.”

Patrick’s heart crawls up in his throat. All he can think of is that he only looks up at Pete when he’s on his knees in front of him, and he wants to fucking die. 

Then Pete comes back, and gives Patrick a friendly one-two punch to his shoulder. It’s awkward, tense, forced, and, more than anything else, it’s not them, but Mrs. Stump can’t figure that out. 

“Hey, uh, wanna go finish your language arts homework?” Pete asks, “I mean, I can’t proofread for sh-”

“Actually, Peter,” Mrs Stump smiles, almost coldly, “Dinner’s ready. Will you be joining us, or will you be going back home?”

“Will it be okay if I join you, again? I’m still kinda helping Patrick with his homework.”

Mrs. Stump mutters something about Pete always staying for dinner nowadays, but as she turns away, Patrick rushes to grab Pete’s hand and squeeze it, letting it go in a second.

“Help me set the table,” Patrick says, “work’s good for you.”

Pete laughs, braying, and rushes to help Mrs. Stump pull her baked mac’n’cheese out of the oven, grabbing oven mitts and lifting it up. “Here, let me help you, Patricia, that must be heavy.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. Pete may be, just may be, trying too hard.

 

Somewhere down the line, Pete heard Patrick singing along to Saves The Day, and realized that Patrick had a voice of gold.

And when Joe gathers them and Andy and tells them that they need to start a band as the four of them, Pete takes Patrick’s hand, raises his arm, and yells, “Patrick’s our singer!”

Fast forward two weeks, with the four of them having set up a drum kit and their other various instruments in the Wentz’s basement, and are blindfolding themselves, throwing darts at the wall to see what piece of paper attracts the most holes. 

Each paper has a shitty band name, ranging from “Short Story” and “Forget Me Not” to anything as bad as “Unhappy Ending” and “Pretty In Pink”. (Pretty In Pink has had ‘pink’ crossed out several times, replaced with “punk”... Then “pink”... And so it goes.)

Then, Joe, in one of his rare moments of sage brilliance, says, “maybe we shouldn’t be ruining the walls by throwing darts.”

 

Patrick’s home alone four days before Thanksgiving, just as their one-week break for the holiday starts. Of course, that means Pete’s over. 

And Pete being over means that Patrick’s being held down on his bed, wrists crossed above his head and held in place by Pete’s left hand, while his right is sneaking up, under Patrick’s shirt, and biting at Patrick’s lower lip. He’s shirtless, jeans unbuttoned, spewing out a litany filled with “Patrick” and “so hot” and “wanna fuck you”. 

Patrick moans, at a loss of words.

It’s as Pete’s pulling Patrick’s shirt off that a pair of bright lights flood the driveway and reflect up, into Patrick’s room. 

“Oh, are you fucking shitting me?” Patrick groans, pulling his shirt back on in record time and attempting willing his erection back down. Think cockroaches, he tells himself. And trumpet players. And that one asshole from Game of Thrones.

Pete’s trying desperately to do the zip on his jeans, but his hands are shaking, and if Patrick “helps” him, he’ll only be making matters worse. Patrick lunges for Pete’s shirt, untangles it, and forces it over Pete’s head, most of the fabric hanging around his collarbones and covering his thorn tattoos around his neck. 

As Pete finally gets the zipper up and howls in victory, Mrs. Stump calls from up the stairs, “Patrick? What’s going on in there?”

The two boys exchange a look, a panicked understanding of how do we hide this?

And then Pete glares, and says, “Milo Goes To College wasn’t the Descendents best album.”

Patricia Stump finds her son effectively trying to knee his best friend in the balls, throwing fists and screaming, “take it back! Take it back!”

When Mrs. Stump “breaks the fight up” and leaves the room, both Pete and Patrick sigh in defeat.

“Might as well go fuck in a dumpster,” Patrick laments.

“If it’s any consolation, we’re still seeing The Academy Is... tomorrow, right? I’ll blow you in the bathrooms,” Pete offers. 

Patrick sighs, louder this time, and Pete falls back on the bed. “I at least deserve a gold star for trying.”

 

The Academy Is… has a lead singer. He’s infinitesimally prettier than Patrick, and he keeps on moving his hips oh so suggestively while he sings, and Patrick hates him so much.

Fuck these other shitty bands in the scene. Fuck them.

After they finish their set, Patrick’s drinking Pete’s beer under the table, hiding his Xed-up hands in his hoodie, when the pretty lead singer comes up to him. 

“Hey, great job up there, you’re so awesome,” Joe says, skating a hand through his curls, “I have so much respect for women that get up on stage in the scene.”

Andy spits his water out and stares at Joe, slack-jawed. 

Lead Singer rolls his eyes to hide his blush. He touches Andy’s wrist with two fingers, and says, “you don’t have to lecture him now, I get that a lot.”

He then turns to Patrick, and says, “can I talk to you?”

Patrick frowns, but he passes Pete’s beer back to him, squeezing his hand, and says, “yeah, where?”

Lead Singer juts a thumb towards the stage, where the last band’s setting up. When Patrick gets up, he starts walking, and Patrick follows.

“So, uh, I saw you weren’t a fan of our band,” he starts. He’s even pulling his jeans up, and his shirt down, modestly covering his previously displayed hipbones. Part of Patrick feels victorious about the action.

“I was wondering if you could tell us what we could do. Like. To be better.” Lead Singer sighs, continuing and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, I just… I don’t do well with knowing I suck.”

Patrick feels like shit now. Fuckin’ A.

“I’m so sorry you felt like that,” he starts, “I’m just kinda in a bad mood. I didn’t really want to come here, but my boy-” Patrick freezes up, clears his throat. “My friends made me come. I’m sorry if that rubbed off.”

Lead Singer nods, and extends a hand to shake. “I’m William.”

Patrick shakes it. “Patrick.”

“Can you tell your one friend that I’m not a chick?” William asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Patrick chuckles. 

William kicks the floor, shoving his hands in his pockets as the air becomes tense and awkward. “I’ll, uh…”

Patrick catches on. “I’ll just… Go now.”

“Yeah. Um, nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Patrick calls out over his shoulder as he turns around.

He’s passed the first table when he hears William call out, “Patrick!” 

Patrick turns. “Yeah?”

“Your boyfriend’s lucky to have you,” he calls out, “you’re a good guy.”

Patrick’s mouth falls open a little, but William’s eyes carry fathoms of understanding. He closes his mouth, and nods, walking back to Pete as fast as possible. 

 

Two weekends later, when he goes to see a slew of crappy hardcore bands with Pete, he sees William sitting in the back. His head’s tucked under the chin of someone even taller than him, a dude in a bright purple shirt under black flannel, a scar from a short-lived labret piercing healing. 

They’re hidden in the shadows of the corner; Patrick knows the action like the back of his hand. 

 

The last three weeks between Thanksgiving and the end of the semester is utter fucking hell, and Patrick spends the whole time taking a multitude of pens and sharpies out, lifting the sleeve of his hoodie, and drawing patterns into the pale skin of his forearms. Closer to the bone, the ballpoints dig in like shovels in a graveyard, soothed over with the brush-like feeling of the sharpie tips. His skin blushes angry and red under the messy, unbalanced swirls and dots. 

Snow swirls in banks outside, wicked Chicago-winter-chill, and Patrick shivers, tugging his sleeve back down.

He’s eating lunch with Joe. Rather, Joe is eating lunch next to him while Patrick uses one of the desktops in the library to finish his paper. 

“So, what’s happening with you and Pete?” He asks, cutting through the silence between them. “Like, are you guys fucking or is Andy pulling some bullshit on me? Because I still don’t believe that the chick from The Academy Is… is actually a dude.”

Patrick frowns at him. Joe’s fingernails are yellowing a little more, a side effect of his growing smoking habits. “Wait, what?”

“You. Pete. Fucking?” Joe clarifies. “Also, that chick who’s apparently a dude?”

Patrick sighs. “Okay. William is a dude, not a skinny chick with a deep voice.”

“What about Pete?”

“Is Pete a girl? I mean, kind of a weird question, but not the last time I checked.”

“So you are fucking him?”

“Yes.” Patrick gasps, blushing. “No!” 

“Aw, Patrick, that’s great, you two are so cute together!” Joe crows, “even though Pete’s kind of a douche and he talks too much-”

“Oh my god, you’re the worst, shut up,” Patrick bemoans, covering his face and exiting out of Google Drive. “Fuck this paper anyways, jeez.”

“Like, is it weird, since he’s, what, five years older? Dude, is that even legal-”

“Trohman, you’re one of my best friends, but for the love of god, shut the fuck up.”

“Why? I’m a human. I have questions-”

“Because that’s the counselor’s office right there, you dipshit,” Patrick hisses, lowering his head. “Not legal, remember?”

Joe takes a moment to process Patrick’s words, before: “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” 

There’s a tense moment between them, before Joe asks, “what if your mom finds out?”

Patrick’s shoulders fall. His head follows. It’s all he can do to say that he doesn’t know.

 

It’s two days after Christmas, and Patrick’s in Pete’s bed. 

He’s naked, covers up to his chin, forehead against Pete’s throat, hands tangled with his, the tops of his feet pressing into Pete’s soles. Their knees are knocking, Patrick’s ass is on the sore side of things, and there’s sweat trapped between his shoulderblades. 

“Is there a way to stay like this forever, and never be caught?” Pete asks into Patrick’s hair, bending down to kiss the bridge of his nose. 

“I dunno, I’d like to take a shower eventually,” Patrick smirks, then screwing his face up when Pete kisses his eyelids. “God, you’re a sap.”

Pete hums. “You love it.”

Patrick shrugs, laughing. “You know, maybe I do.”

“Let’s leave,” Pete says. 

“What? Leave the bed? I’m naked, the air in your room is fucking cold, and I’m not letting my balls fall off.”

Pete laughs, but shakes his head, nose digging into the crown of Patrick’s skull. 

“No. Like, leave Glenview. You graduate high school, and I guess we can take Joe and Andy with us, and we leave. Never come back. I’m just… I’m sick of lying.”

Patrick sighs in agreement. “Yeah,” he breathes.

Pete looks down. “Yeah?”

Patrick looks up at him, before shifting up the bed to kiss him. “Yeah.”

 

When Patrick gets back, there’s another car sitting in the driveway. Patrick can’t recognize it, but he figures that it’s probably his mom’s friend, over for drinks or something.

“I’m back,” Patrick calls out, taking his coat off and hanging it up in the closet, pulling snow boots off with a certain vigor. “Hello? Mom?”

Patrick wanders through the house when he hears silence, following the light into the kitchen.

Something’s wrong.

Something must be Totally, Absolutely, Very Wrong, because his dad’s sitting at the table with his mom. 

Mrs. Stump looks up. Her mascara’s smeared against the highlight of her eyelid and her crow’s feet, blue eyes a little tinted with red, hands shaking around her mug of tea.

“...Mom, is something wrong?” Patrick asks, swallowing. 

Patrick’s dad turns around, stern, straight-faced, and asks, “Patrick, sit down. Is there something you’d like to tell us?”

“Is this-”

“Patrick Martin,” his mom starts. 

Patrick pales, sits down at the table.

“I got a call,” Mrs. Stump starts, “from Dale Wentz across the street.”

Patrick’s heart drops into his stomach, which, in consequence, churns like a winter sea, which, after that, turns his limbs cold and his head heavy like ice.

“Patrick, what… What do you and Pete do… When you’re together?”

“Play music. Write. Eat. Hang out. Be friends. Mom, what do you think we do?”

“Well, Patrick, Dale told me some very different things,” Mrs. Stump says. “You weren’t… You weren’t doing anything… Inappropriate with him, were you?”

In that moment, Patrick snaps, even just a little bit.

“What do you want to hear, Mom, what do you want to hear? Pete and I, I dunno, brutally fist each other anally the minute you’re gone. And then go jump in his car to, hell, run over old ladies and their cats! What kind of answer are you dying for?”

“Patrick! What is wrong with-”

“What’s wrong with me? With me? I am maintaining a healthy relationship with another human being, is that so terrible?”

Patrick then realizes that he did not word that correctly, and just came out. To both parents. Fuck.

“I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch,” Mr. Stump starts. 

“David, that’s not going to solve-” 

“What, are you saying that my son let this happen?” Mr. Stump starts, “this Peter boy has abused his friendship with Patrick and turned him into something he’s not-”

“I’m right here, thank you,” Patrick calls out. 

“-Something we haven’t raised him to be! Unless you’ve been telling him this was okay-”

“You think I knew?” Mrs. Stump spits out, “I knew just as much as you did!”

Patrick tries to intervene several times. Neither parent listens, as the conversation becomes less about Patrick and more about who the better parent was.

 

Band practice has been cut, since Pete will be there. Mrs. Stump insists to see his call and text history every morning, and if Patrick so much as looks across the street, the lecturing of ‘good and bad choices’ and ‘phases that you’ll grow out of’ starts. Patrick could shoot himself between the eyes for all he cares.

When the Wentz’s reluctantly invite the Stumps to their New Year’s Eve party, Mrs. Stump makes sure Patrick stays home.

Which is how Patrick decides he’s also going to drink his sorrows away with a bottle each of Smirnoff and cranberry juice while every sad-as-fuck Brand New song - fuck it, Brand New’s entire discography - plays at window-shattering levels. Having feelings sucks, and you don’t notice it as much when you’re getting smashed off your ass to Long Island indie rock.

It’s about five minutes to the new year when Patrick gets a call from an unknown number. 

Patrick picks his phone up, putting his subpar attempt at playing bartender down. “H’llo? Who’s this?”

“Patrick, I only have a couple minutes, just meet me outside,” Pete’s voice echoes, crackly from cold phone lines, before the call drops.

Four days without seeing Pete is too long. Patrick scrambles to put snow boots and a coat on, has to force his gloves and scarf on.

The street is covered in the trademark, thick, driven-over, packed down snow that slowly becomes ice. It’s smooth under the track’s of Patrick’s boots, and he struggles walking across it. His face burns from the alcohol against the late December wind, but the chill is helping sober a little faster. 

He squints in the light, and sees a dark form in the middle of the street, walking towards him.

“Pete!” 

The form laughs, and runs towards him, yelling, “Patrick!”

Patrick starts running too, giggling, stupid and drunk, and he’s barely seven, six, five feet away, when his left foot catches on a patch of ice. 

Patrick stumbles, runs forward to try and catch his balance, and falls straight into Pete, sending them both falling into the ice.

Patrick groans in pain, face falling into Pete’s neck. “I’m so sorry.”

Pete simply laughs. “It’s okay, I still love you.”

Patrick smiles, despite everything. He’s just missed everything about Pete. “I love you, too,” he whispers into Pete’s jaw.

Pete whistles. “You smell like a Russian.”

“I’m sorry. I tried to forget you couldn’t be there.” Patrick rolls off Pete, onto the ice, before he stands back up, trying to avoid the ice. He extends a hand to Pete, who takes it.

“I’m… Here now?” Pete offers, sticking his hands in his jacket. He’s only wearing a hoodie and a knit hat, teeth beginning to chatter.

Patrick unbuttons his coat, opens it, and steps closer to Pete, wrapping himself in it. “You could have gotten a coat, dipshit.”

Pete shakes his head as he accepts the warmth, curling his neck over Patrick’s shoulder and sneaking his arms around Patrick’s hips, crossing them back over and hooking his fingers in Patrick’s belt loops. “Missed you too much.”

There’s screaming starting in the Wentz house, frantic scrambling as people start chanting a countdown from sixty.

“Patrick, will you be my New Year’s kiss?” Pete asks.

“Did you drag me out here in the freezing cold so you could kiss me on New Years? Pete, do you realize how fucking cheesy you are?”

“I am fucking cheesy, it’s in my nature. Will you?”

Patrick sighs, grinning despite rolling his eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

Pete jumps up a little from where he’s wrapped in Patrick’s coat, the fabric yanking up against the back of Patrick’s head. His smile splits his face, a blush from the cold turning his complexion a dark red. 

“Okay, what number are they on?” Pete asks himself, turning around. “sixteen. Fifteen-”

“Can’t you have just come to my house? It’s so cold out here,” Patrick mumbles, reaching a hand up to rub his nose. 

“I was hoping it’d be snowing. Kisses in the snow are more romantic,” Pete rushes, “nine-”

“I’m not a girl and this is not a Nicholas Sparks book-”

“Four, three, two, one,” Pete whispers, against Patricks cheek, before leaning in to kiss him.

Patrick’s surprised about how chaste it is. Seriously, his parents banned him from seeing the boyfriend he’s currently kissing, and, after four days of wasting away, Pete’s only pressing his lips against Patrick’s.

Patrick opens his mouth a little, licks at Pete’s bottom lip, until Pete’s lips part in return.

They stay like that, still except for the clash of teeth and tongues, the twitching of necks, until the Wentz’s door slams open.

The two boys panic and jump apart, but it’s just Mr. and Mrs. Standish, warbling a horribly out of tune version of Auld Lang Syne. Mr. Standish stops it to yell out, “Hi, Peter! Happy New Year!” in their general direction.

The two laugh. 

“Hey, same time tomorrow?” Pete asks.

“In the cold? Can’t you just sneak into my room? I’ll let you in,” Patrick counters.

Pete pokes his shoulder. “Serious? Your mother’s not gonna hear 140 pounds of her son’s evil, college-aged boyfriend crashing into her household? I’m not that graceful.”

Patrick huffs defeat, and leans back up to kiss Pete. “Fine, whatever, same time tomorrow.”

Pete laughs against his lips. 

 

As Patrick cleans up the vodka and cranberry juice before his mother comes back later, he slides his fingers over the kitchen countertop, and imagines the ridges of his fingertips as the tracks of a tire, the smooth porcelain of the roads leaving Glenview. The thought of driving away calms him.


End file.
